


Ride Your Chrome Horse

by ionthesparrow



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:44:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roll on highway, roll on along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ride Your Chrome Horse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [armillarysphere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/armillarysphere/gifts).



> For [armillarysphere](http://archiveofourown.org/users/armillarysphere/pseuds/armillarysphere), for knowing Butch Goring when she saw him. 
> 
> I have no idea if this is anything like what you wanted, I hope you don't hate it :)
> 
> Thank you to [empathapathique](http://archiveofourown.org/users/empathapathique/pseuds/empathapathique) and [Kelfin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelfin/pseuds/Kelfin) for giving it a quick once-over.

* * *

 

Mike picks up the I-5 route when Jason Smith retires. Smith gives him a whole slew of advice on his way out the door, most of it irrelevant because Mike has zero intention of sticking his dick into any girls, not that Smith has any way of knowing that particular piece of information. 

Smith does say, “You oughta make plans for getting out of this life, son. Or one day you’re gonna look up and realize the only thing you know is the road, and the road’s the only thing that knows you.” 

Mike nods his most polite smile, and shakes Smith’s hand, and kills the sarcastic remark sitting on the tip of his tongue. But goddamn, man. That was the whole _point._

 

 

By pushing up against what can safely be done to a straight six, and right past what shouldbe done in the name of fuel economy, Mike makes it a solid 500 all the way down into southern Oregon, wet October woods rolling uninterrupted on either side. He still doesn’t quite clear the pass before he hits his eleven. It’s spitting rain sideways when he stops, pitch black interrupted by just his headlights and one lonesome, neon sign. God’s most forgotten truck stop, tucked up in the foothills right before I-5 starts snaking its way over Grant’s Pass. 

There’s just a couple tractors slumbering in their spaces, plenty of room for Mike for to pull in. Mike kills the engine, flips the clock on his EOBR, and looks out. The glow of the diner’s sign cuts through the dark, throwing bright splashes onto wet pavement. 

There’s no one inside but the guy behind the counter, shoulders hunched over what looks like the crossword. He glances up when Mike comes in; scowls when Mike pulls his hat off and shakes the water out of his hair. 

At the counter, Mike gets an eyebrow, and a menu slid silent towards him. “What do you want to eat?” It’s asked before he has a chance to open the thing, which, he supposes, is a tacit admission of the truth: they’re all just the interchangeable trappings of a set piece that never really changes. 

Or: it’s all the same goddamn food. 

He’s still buzzing from the road, the hum of it in his bones, in his hands. He doesn’t quite yet feel still. “What time is it?” 

The guy looks at Mike full on for the first time. He’s tall, now that’s standing up straight. Blond, dark blue eyes, and the curve of his mouth – 

Well. It’s possible some variations on the trappings are nicer than others. His nametag reads JEFF. Jeff frowns at him, skeptical. “Somewhere between dinner and breakfast.” 

Mike grins. “Eggs, then.” 

Jeff’s already turning away. “How do you want ‘em?” 

“How do you like them?” Jeff stops and turns around, studying Mike again. Mike leans across the counter, rests his chin in his hand. “Surprise me.” 

Jeff rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed. He moves around his kitchen with neat, economic motions. Slides Mike his plate with a small nod. “Coffee?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

“Milk?” 

Jeff’s own mug is sitting neglected next to his crossword. “How do you take yours?” 

That earns him another sharp look. Jeff gives it to him black. 

 

 

“Quite a bit of rain you guys get around here. Must keep things nice and green.” Mike forks another piece of egg into his mouth. 

Jeff is back bent over his crossword. He hums without looking up. 

“I suppose that’s important for – the fuck do people do around here, anyway? Grow trees to cut down?” 

The tip of Jeff’s pencil isn’t moving. “Mostly,” he allows, eyes on the page. 

Mike sets his fork down. “You know, you don’t talk much for a guy who works at a truck stop. You ought to get better at it. That’s basically your most important job. Keep truckers from going too crazy, up inside their own heads. More important than coffee, even.” He pauses. The line of Jeff’s neck is one long curve. “More important than your shitty eggs, that’s for sure.” Mike stuffs the last of them in his mouth. 

Jeff does glance up at that. He saunters over and glares pointedly down at Mike’s empty plate, and then up at his face, head cocked ever so slightly to the side. There’s a beat before he grabs the plate and heads for the kitchen. 

“More coffee when you get a chance,” Mike calls after him and snags the crossword left sitting on the counter. 

When he comes back, Jeff swipes the mug too. “I think you’ve had enough coffee. Seems to make you chatty.” He reaches for his crossword. 

Mike pins it to the counter. “Serendipity,” he says, grinning his best smile at Jeff. “Eight across.” 

Jeff gives him a long, hard look. “Eight across is nine letters, definitely does not start with an ‘S’, and that is the worst pick up line I have ever heard.” 

Mike grins harder. 

Jeff tugs the puzzle free. “How do you not get the shit kicked out of you at truck stops across the nation?” 

“Just charming, I guess.” 

Jeff snorts. He folds his arms across his chest. He looks rather jaded about the whole thing. 

“I suppose you get hit on by hot, charming truckers all the time, then?” 

“Actually,” Jeff deadpans. “I’m still waiting for the first time.” 

Mike slaps a hand over his heart. 

But, “I can take a break,” Jeff says, “in 45 minutes.” 

“I can wait.” 

Jeff ignores him for 45 minutes solid, shoulders turned pointedly away. Mike watches him finish his crossword, flip the paper over and start reading. His weight shifts back and forth, hip cocked to one side. All without saying another word to Mike, and nothing but the sound of rain up against the windows. The door to the diner doesn’t open once. At the 45 minute mark, Mike clears his throat. 

Jeff looks up and then glances at the clock. There’s a smirk playing around his mouth. 

 

 

Outside, he eyes Mike’s tractor. “Jesus Christ, how old is this thing?” 

“Hey.” Mike pats the cab. “This is a classic. This is vintage.” 

Jeff makes a skeptical sound, deep in his throat, but he climbs aboard anyway, heading straight for the sleeper compartment in the back. 

It’s not exactly spacious, but it’s clean, and dry, and it’s the only thing in the world that’s through-and-through, 100% Mike’s. Jeff edges up close to him, hands skimming over his shoulders, breath warm across his ear. “Anyway,” Mike says. “I’m Mike.” 

“Mike.” Jeff’s mouth is just at the corner of his. “Hi.” 

 

 

There was a moment, afterwards, of trying to spoon his brains back into head. Eyes closed, and his forehead against Jeff’s back, that moment when they have to come apart. Jeff groaned a little when they did. It was an intimidating moment – because Jeff was quiet otherwise, and for all Mike knows maybe Jeff just has phenomenal sex with _every_ one-night stand he picks up. 

But when Jeff rolls upright, he looks satisfyingly glazed. He blinks a couple times at Mike, mouth still swollen, hair mashed and flattened. “I have to go back to work.” It almost sounds like a question. 

Mike pushes up on his elbows, watches while he pulls his pants back on. “Hey,” he says, after Jeff pulls his t-shirt over his head, but there really isn’t very much else to say. 

Jeff smiles at him, a little crooked. He leans down. “Be careful at mile seven going over the pass,” he says. “Nasty switchback.” His mouth is soft on Mike’s. 

 

 

He’s back through a couple months later, just days before Christmas. Mike is deadheading, which is irritating enough, even without the sleet and hail being spat at him. He turns his collar up and sprints the distance from his truck to the diner. The windows are fogged over, and the storm’s bad enough to be heard over the clatter of plates and conversation. 

Jeff gives him what could almost, but not quite, be classified as a smile. “You look like a drowned rat,” he says, when Mike sits down. And, “I get off at nine, if you can wait.” 

Mike fingers just barely touch his, when Jeff sets his coffee down. “I can wait,” he says. 

 

 

“It’s cold in here,” Jeff says. His fingers are undoing the buttons of Mike’s flannel, sliding up under the fabric of his t-shirt. 

“Heater’s a bit chancy.” But Jeff’s mouth is on his, his hands sliding up Mike’s back. 

 

 

“God – wait,” Jeff says. “Wait, just give me – ” Jeff’s breathing hard, sucking in air through his teeth. Mike can feel his muscles shivering, skin slick under his hands. Mike closes his eyes, focuses on holding still, face buried against Jeff’s neck, mouth moving mindlessly across his skin. 

“Yeah. Okay, now – ” Jeff’s whole body is trembling around Mike. Mike slides against him, once and then again, and then they both lose it together, right within the same breath. 

“Holy shit,” Mike says, sometime after he can talk, before either of them has tried to move. Jeff moans a little next to him, a noise that turns into a grumble when Mike starts to shift. 

Mike gives up and slides an arm around Jeff’s middle instead. Jeff is warm and solid. He’ll get up in a minute. He has miles to cover. 

Or rather, he could spend a good, solid twenty minutes tracing patterns into the skin of Jeff’s back before Jeff finally sighs. “We should get up.” 

Mike nods absently. 

“Is it still sleeting?” 

Mike cranes his neck. He swats at the curtain that covers his little window. “It’s snowing.” 

“You should go,” Jeff says quietly. “If it keeps up, they’ll close the pass.” 

Neither one of them move. 

Jeff eventually rolls upright, scrubs a hand across his face. Mike can see goosebumps on his exposed skin, dim light from outside falling across him. Jeff pulls his pants on and then he’s digging out his phone. He looks back at Mike. “Or, rather, they did close the pass.” There’s something uncertain in his voice. 

Mike doesn’t like being stuck; Mike doesn’t like being still. 

Jeff says, “I live just a few blocks – we could – if you wanted.” He looks down. 

“Sure,” Mike says. 

 

 

Jeff’s apartment is small, nearly empty. Ceilings low enough to make him look even taller than he actually is. White walls, brown carpet. Jeff looks around and shrugs. “Let’s go to bed.” 

The snow keeps up for two days. They venture out once to the diner, where Jeff lets them in past the sign on the door that says, CLOSED – WEATHER, and stuffs a shopping bag full of eggs and bread and perishables. Mike follows him behind the counter, puts his hands on him so he can hear Jeff’s inhale, the way he mutters and turns to pull Mike up against him – presses him against the giant deli fridge, and it’s so cool at his back, and Jeff’s hands are hot roving over him. 

Jeff makes ham sandwiches for Christmas Eve. “It’s festive,” he says. The fluorescent kitchen light makes everything look a bit yellowed, the linoleum cracked and peeling. Jeff’s smile shy as he pushes the plate towards him. 

In the dark, Mike tucks himself around him, mapping his body by touch, the smooth skin of back, the stubble on his throat, the soft, delicate places that make him moan and sigh against Mike. 

In the dark, Mike asks, “You have family around?” 

Jeff has one of Mike’s hands caught up in his. “No,” Jeff answers. “No, they’re all back east.” 

“What are you doing out here?” 

Jeff’s fingertips still. “Just being out here, I guess.” 

For a second, Mike’s whole chest is tight. “And you?” Jeff asks. “What are you doing driving a truck?” 

The way he’s touching Mike is so careful, like he could memorize every line in his palm. Mike swallows. “Just not being there, I guess.” 

 

 

Eventually there’s sun on the windows and the sound of the plows at work. They keep their eyes closed when they fuck the last time, and Jeff’s fingers leave bruises where they grip. 

“Can I call you?” Mike asks, the words slipped out, unplanned, the sun bright off the snow, his cap low over his eyes. Jeff nods, but they’re still not looking, neither one of them, not right on. 

 

 

He does call. But Mike’s days are broken up into chunks of eleven hours and ten, not twenty-four. He leaves messages babbling about red New Mexico desert and bayou swamp, talking just to talk to Jeff’s machine. 

The sound of his phone wakes him out of sleep, easy to find, the only light in a pitch-dark cab. He clears his throat. “Hello?” 

“Mike. Did I wake you?” 

“No, it’s fine – ” 

“I’m sorry.” Jeff sounds tired. Neither one of them says anything for a minute, and then they both try to speak at once. 

Laughing makes Mike’s chest feel tight. “You go.” 

“Where are you?” Soft. 

He pauses. “Outside of Memphis, I think.” 

“You stop to get bar-b-que?” 

“Not yet.” He rubs his hand across his eyes, tries to sound like he’s smiling. “Maybe tomorrow.” 

Jeff is quiet for a beat. Mike can hear him swallow. “You headed back out west, ever?” 

If there’s no home, there’s nothing to miss. If there’s no endpoint, there’s no anxiety about getting there, and there’s nothing painful about leaving again. “Maybe,” Mike says. “Eventually.” 

Jeff gives him just the briefest little huff of a laugh. “Right, well. I guess I can wait.” 

 

 

There’s a lot of miles on the continent, a whole lot of roads. It’s hard to keep track of the things that stay still. 

 

 

Oregon offers up blue skies for once, just the barest wisps as he pushes past Mt. Hood. Long, midsummer days, the sun’s still high and he could probably push through without drawing a fine if he really wanted. Mike irritates every driver on the road, coming up to the exit, slower than molasses, trying to make up his mind whether to drive past. 

Jeff looks tired when he comes in, more worn than Mike remembers. 

“Hey,” he says, when Mike sits down. He brings Mike coffee and eggs. “You just stopping for lunch?” 

“Yeah,” Mike says, and Jeff nods. 

“I can take a break,” he says, nodding around at the rest of the customers. “If you can give me twenty?” 

“Yeah,” Mike says again. “Yeah, I can wait.” 

 

 

They’re quick. Rough with each other, right up until the point Mike’s pressing his lips over and over again against Jeff’s temple, bodies slippery so Mike interlaces their fingers together. 

After, Jeff says. “I should get back.” He looks over his shoulder at Mike. His lips press together, and he dresses quick. Mike keeps his eyes on the cab’s ceiling. 

The weather’s clear, and he makes good time heading out. He covers a lot of ground before he can quite breathe right. 

 

 

The road zigzags while it climbs, turns and darts. Hills stretching off into forever. A thousand empty roads stretching out in front of him, all the world’s possibilities between painted lines. 

The pass itself is twenty-one hard miles, rising and falling. It’s a hell of a view. 

Mike has to drive all twenty-one of those miles, and then all twenty-one back, because there’s no sooner place to turn a semi around. 

 

 

“Come with me,” he says. “Come with me – ” 

“Well shit,” Jeff says, hands moving quick over the strings of his apron. “I don’t know what you were waiting for.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys can forgive me for mixing my musical metaphors. Title from Bobby D's _Like A Rolling Stone_. Summary from Alabama's _Roll On_.
> 
> (How could I not? I ask you. _How could I not?_ )

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic of] Ride Your Chrome Horse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830785) by [anna_unfolding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_unfolding/pseuds/anna_unfolding)




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